Email me

Sunday, July 31, 2011

229th email

From: Stacey Marchenkova
To: dom borax < >
Sent: Tuesday September 8th, 1999 12:29 PM
Subject: RE I don’t want to leave you.

Sounds like you need a hand packing...I’ll be there shortly...Just keep it to two suitcases and two carry-ons I reckon...that’s all you’ll need...your stuff will be safe with your parents...and I can bring some things with me when I visit...too...

Okay here’s a can only take three books...three CDs...three pair of pants...three shirts...three sentimental things...three pairs of shoes...three photos and three things from my house...

Start with that, email me back...for by the time you’re done I’ll be there...

Love ya


Wednesday, July 27, 2011

228th email

From: Dom Borax
To: Stacey Marchenkova
Sent: Tuesday September 8th, 1999 11:16 AM
Subject: I don’t want to leave you.

Dear Stacey, I think I am addicted to you.

Over the last week I didn’t get enough of you.

I want more.

I know some would say I’ve had my fill.

But it’s not enough.

My tolerance has increased.

I need more.

See, I noticed over the last couple of days that when you left the room I started to withdraw. Even when it was the smallest of moments, I’d start to get shakey, lose a sense of self, get paranoid and truly feel sick.

How will I be when it’s days, weeks or months?

And sorry I was so grumpy on Saturday. It’s such a stupid thing to waste our precious time with a bad mood. I didn’t think it would affect me when I saw Elsa and Crisps together it hit me hard. I mean at least those craft markets have lots of places to hide but still seeing them by that pottery stall, hand in hand and laughing made me angry. Not jealous. I have to stress. It was pure anger because they had all the time in the world and we only have five days.

It’s just not fair. They don’t deserve each other.

Fuck them.

Anyway no point on dwelling on this moment, it only takes our time away.

I should start packing, but I can’t. It all seems so much. The only thing I want to take with me is you (and maybe an extra pair of socks)




Sunday, July 24, 2011

227th email

From: Stacey Marchenkova
To: dom borax < >
Sent: Saturday August 22nd, 1999 1:15 AM
Subject: RE RE I can’t sleep case you’re worried...we’ve made the right’s the right decision...even Oftenbark thinks so...and he’ll love hanging with your folks for six months...I’ll visit him...hey, I might get some of your folk’s cooking thrown in too...I mean... come on, buster...they should have their own TV show...

And time will go so’ll be back before you know...with an amercan accent and a damn fine listing on you resume...

Fox Studios – Los Angeles - Writer - 1999

Doesn’t that look good?

Love ya


Wednesday, July 20, 2011

226th email

From: Dom Borax
To: Stacey Marchenkova
Sent: Friday August 21st, 1999 10:11 AM
Subject: RE I can’t sleep

Hi stace, I’ve just read your email and just before I wake you, I thought I’d reply. I think perhaps I’m doing this as a rehearsal for our conversation. Or maybe it’s because it feels familiar. Or maybe it’s just polite.

Anyway, I’m all confused. I couldn’t believe the offer, the ticket, the hotel, the job – everything.

But I don’t want to go. I want to stay here with you. I mean surely when we die and we look back, it’s those we loved that visit us.

And I love you. I visit you. You’re a perfect holiday.


PS Okay here’s a thought - maybe you could come with me? I know not right away but if you saved and I saved you could join me in a couple of months. What do you think? Anyway I’ll put it to you when you wake up.

Sunday, July 17, 2011

225th email

From: Stacey Marchenkova
To: dom borax < >
Sent: Friday August 21st, 1999 2:24 AM
Subject: I can’t sleep’s’re asleep and and I need to talk to you...but I don’t want to wake this seems easier...or kinder...or maybe more sympathetic...not sure... anyway...tonight was lovely...your mum is just as charming as your are so lucky to have lovely parents...and they both cook...that’s so wonderful...seeing them together by the stove...both in aprons...his and hers...very funny...and they stir and chop and fold and’s adorable...and enviable..

Yes, I am so jealous...

And they’re so supportive...that must be amazing..,

I mean that...I truly mean that...I mean you know how it rolls with my folks...

Anyway, I don’t want to be one of those crying girls...just wanting to give context of why I need to talk to you...what I’ve been thinking about...

See your parents are supportive...they set the standard, you know...and I need to be supportive too...

Therefore I agree with have to go to Los Angeles...

See this is your time...this is your chance...the world deserves you...they’ll love you...I know...I know they’ll hold parades for you and embrace you (but not too tightly, as I’ll be watching)

It’s so exciting,’ve wanted this...LA...Fox...writing it up...I know it’s small PA pickings but it’ll’re too good...guys like you never slip through...guys like you always use their skills for good...guys like you can and do make a difference...

I will miss you of course...but it is an amazing opportunity...and I can visit or you’ll be back for Christmas and we can always write...we’re good at that...

Anyway...that’s it...getting sleepy now...and a little teary...I’m going to snuggle up to you...and enjoy this time...this pefect time...

Wake me when you read this... we’ll probably need to talk it through...

I love you so much


PS and Proud as punch.

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

224th email

From: Stacey Marchenkova
To: dom borax < >
Sent: Thursday August 20th, 1999 2:24 AM
Subject: RE RE Your Dad is a legend

I will come your mum, huh?

And maybe we could dig a hole in your garden too...just to escape... I’ll bring the bucket if you bring the spade...

...and we can dig and dig until we’re free...I know it seems like hard work...but sometimes it’s good to get away… don’t you think?



Sunday, July 10, 2011

223rd email

From: Dom Borax
To: Stacey Marchenkova
Sent: Thursday August 20th, 1999 9:21 AM
Subject: RE Your Dad is a legend

Yes that’s a little tragic. But in fairness, Da’ is a hard act to follow. He’s a Londoner; a true cockney – grew up during the war – he was there during the blitz too.

See he was shipped out like the other kids when the bombs started to fall. He went to the country with a small suitcase and a packet of toy soldiers.

But he didn’t last too long in the country. For come supper he was forced to put his soldiers away and eat his vegetables.

Now my father hated vegetables. He had avoided them all his life. But the country folk he was billeted with where stubborn too. And when he refused to eat his greens they forced it down his throat. And when that didn’t work they forced them into his ears.

Needless to say when he informed his mother of this madness she took him back to London quick smart electing the sporadic Luftwaffe bombing patterns over Yorkshire logic.

Back in London, my father settled in quickly. He started work as a Messenger Boy; traversing the rubble and broken frames of the houses.

Inded he tells a great story about delivering a box of Cigars to Winston Churchill.

Okay maybe not a great story as that’s about it.

But I like that he met him and got a good tip too by all accounts.

Another story he tells, takes place after a big delivery of chocolates and theatre tickets to the Piccadilly Escorts. He just finished his shift and met his girlfriend at the Lyons Corner Teahouse.

During a Knickerbocker glory they started discussing their future. Was marriage on the cards? Was my father going to be a delivery boy all his life? Are there such things are delivery men? What was my father going to do for National Service? Where were they both going to go a have a private late night cuddle?

After this debate, the two decided that perhaps a smog drenched, lamplight snog was in order, a quick and youthful fumble quietly hidden among the bombed out buildings.

So they snuck off, hand in hand to to the various pits of destruction.

Soon they discovered the perfect place. It was a bombed out block of houses in the East End. The brickwork was shattered like broken teeth and the brickdust of the past lingered around ghoulish talons of the begging homes that cast shadows onto the knobbled streets.

Pavements where shattered and deep holes of excavated bombs pock marked what was once the smooth and pre pubescent skin of a more peaceful childhood.

Indeed when I see it now, I am so deeply influended by photography, that the scape is vividly painted in black and white, still warped with contrast and layered in loss.

And in this image my father is hand in hand with his girl looking for a place to claim as a trysting room to kiss the war goodbye.

Soon they found it among the ghosts of homes; a lounge room with fire stained carpet and charred black chairs. They entered into the space cautiously and respectfully aware that not that long ago familes shared meagre suppers and talked football.

But as they were about to settle into a moment of woo they saw a man in the distance. He was moving cautiously and cat-like around. Perhaps cat-like is too strong as this man held a large picket-like sign; waving it for all to see. And cats can’t read and write, right?

Anyway, soon the man with the sign neared, so my father decided they needed a more private place; perhaps a place with at least a standing wall.

So they left the ashen room and moved further into the battlefield.

Soon they found another house with a back wall still standing. Again they tiptoed over what was once a kitchen with tin plates warped from the heat and collapsed lone metal kitchen sink, its taps functionless, pointless and nude without a water supply to partner with.

Here, my father took his girl in his arms. Her breath was still sweet from the Lyon’s treat. But as their lips touched they saw the man with the placard sign again.

He was nearer this time and still waving his wooden Standard with victorious fervour.

So they decided to find one more place; something perhaps a little more secret to taste and comfort each other.

Carefully they left the kitchen and strayed deeper into the crag.

And soon they found a crater deep enough to hold two babes.

It was a recent crater; igntited by an unexploded bomb and the fair and pungent flesh of Old England mud was still moist and weeping.

My father was the first to climb in. He said it was like entering the womb of the dead. The sound was muffled, ten feet down and the smell was damp like a wet dog.

He called up to his girl; that it was safe – not the Ritz but it’ll do.

After negotiatioing, he managed to carry her down. She was not hapy about this dirty pit but my father comforted her with his Messanger Boy arms; slim and scattered in hair.

Soon their lips touched. They hadn’t kissed that much and the warm affection was still Tesla coiled and truly electric.

But just as they were about to go for an intimate personal record, the Man with the sign suddenly plunged down from on high with Icarus burnt wings and his placard like a Blimp Sky Rudder flailing the air currents and failing.

Fortunately he missed both my father and his girl by inches and slumped onto the erasured brickwork. His sign flapped solidly on his chest, writing side up.

My father’s girl screamed. It echoed around us; deafening in its whirl and suffocating.

But soon she stopped and all that was left was the moaning of this messanger from Marathon – his feet bloody in his cheap shoes, his hair caked in red cement dust and his body creeping with the lividity of soaked London dirt.

My father cautiously went to him. He asked in a broken ease, if the Man was alright. The Man moaned once more, pointing at the sign as if they could be his last words. My father’s attention was drawn to it and took in the words neatly painted on black.

“Beware of the hole.”

It read.

My father then looked at the Girl who was now crouched by the side of the slumped puppet Mercury.

“Look.” He said.

He pointed at the sign that was now moving up and down with the Man’s breath. The girl took in the sign.

“Beware of the hole.”

She blinked a couple of times. “That’s really cruel.” She said.

My father nodded; aware that the laugh in him would surely be met with rightful contempt. “Let’s get him out.” He suggested.

And soon all three were safe and taken care of. Shortly after my father told me he split up with the girl not through choice but life just simply got in the way. He went overseas and she got pregnant to a guy two doors up.

But as my father tells that story, I can sense there is glee. No one died, he got to kiss the girl and irony gave him a lens of strength to always see misfortune as just another joke.

And this is why he is a great man. This is why I love him. And this is perhaps why you feel the same.

I miss you too


PS Ofenbark is looking out the window, hoping you might come by soon. Will you? You must.

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

222nd email

From: Stacey Marchenkova
To: dom borax < >
Sent: Wednesday August 19th, 1999 23:51 PM
Subject: Your Dad is a legend

Hey Dom...i like your dad more than I like mine...isn’t that tragic...

Miss you...

Sunday, July 3, 2011

221st email

From: Dom Borax
To: Stacey Marchenkova
Sent: Tuesday August 18th, 1999 17:25 PM
Subject: RE RE My new home

Hi Stacey, just got home from a couple of quiet drinks with Dad at the Johnsonian club.

It’s a strange establishment named after Samuel Johnson, the guy that compiled the dictionary.

Anyway this place is small – on the third storey of an unassuming building near the top end of town – near Guide Dogs for the Blind would you believe.

I’ll have to take you there.

You’ll love it, I think.

It has a small smell of pomposity, but the food is good and it has a bar. It also has pictures of Samuel Johnson all the over the walls with some framed pages of early copies of his book.

It’s also the haven for grammar Nazis and wordophiles (I’m sure there’s a real word for wordohiles but I’m going to be stubborn and anarchiac as an act of defiance against the grey dusted members of said club.)

Actually I’m painting a Public school-like boys club with pre warmed toilet seats and ready made school tie auto- asphyxiation cubicles.

It’s not like that at all. Well not quite.

It’s actually a Smokey tragic rumpus room with a second hand full size snooker table with worn green felt in the middle.

This table is the main attraction for my father. Well this and his delight in mingling well above his genetic class.

One of the things I do love about the club is I can cause a modicum of chaos with scuffed and holed Dunlop Vollies as I linger near the bar.

See, I do adore standing next to an affected pup who’s neatly shined, pleated and pressed; a lawyer in waiting already plotting an early stroke to get away from his wife who’s cream-like turned past her expiry date (or so he thinks).

While waiting, I consciously look down at his shoes, then mine. “Tassels instead of laces” I will ask provocatively before giving a small smile to ‘Leonard’ the man behind the bar; the man I generally speak to especially during Toastmasters.

Anyway, here I was at the club playing snooker with Dad. He’s mean with the cue, always has been.

I did not inherit his natural ability with all things pub-sport. He has and will always beat me. And to be honest I like it that way. It makes the world seem normal, familiar and right.

So there we were, father and son. He’s fifty points ahead, aiming for the pink. I’m waiting contemplating some sort of distractive tactic (soft squeal, gentle stumble, tell him I’m gay). He takes his shot. Holes it, and then looks at me.

Dad: So Stacey seems really nice.

He says. I’m delighted he’s brought your name up.

Dad: She really likes you.

He continues.

Dad: And you like her?

He asks.

I nod as I raise his points on the metal board six more places.

Dad: I think your mum will really like her.

He says as he wanders back to the snooker table and aims at a red ball hovering near the back left hand pocket.

I smile as I watch him take his shot. He holes it of course. He always does. He never misses.

See you Thursday



PS Also met a guy at the club who’s just come back from Los Angeles; working as a PA. He’s the son of one of Dad’s
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